Aug
10

“Like a hitman/Oh, like a dancer/All muscle.”
-A.C. Newman
Mel and I watched everyone walking past. We guessed about what everyone did. We sat on the bench in front of the playground facing toward the street. It’s about twenty yards to the street from the bench and in the early evening we used to do a lot of people-watching. We both wore jackets; mine olive, Mel’s a surprising shade of red. Mel said the sky looked like the yellow inside of a foam pillow ripped up by dogs and scattered across the sky. I couldn’t agree. I claimed it looked like a patient waking up just after the ether, eyes clear in front of a fogged brain. Mel stuck to his guns.
A man wearing pants with plastic buckles at the ankles. Bald on top, with a bird’s nest of hair running around the sides. “Billabong,” his shirt said. I said that he owned his own cleaning company. Mel said he sold pot, which he might have had on authority. I didn’t ask. Mel still had this element of a private life that I wasn’t part of. He might have just liked to hint at its edginess. I didn’t like it.
A woman with a cat face, short hair, calf-length black polyester skirt, scarf bunched at her throat. She took a full minute to cross our field of vision. We both said, “Real-estate.”
A man of medium-build and all muscle, head shaved close, grey t-shirt, olive pants. I said, “Hitman.” Mel said, “Dancer.” We looked at each other. I wished that I had said “dancer.” Mel said, “I wish I had said ‘hitman.’” I leaned against him. That was the first time our opinions diverged and we didn’t fight and saw that we were not the same and each wanted to be more like the other.
MP3: A.C. Newman - “Like a Hitman, Like a Dancer”
- Therese Illus lives alone in Rhode Island.
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